My son begs me daily to dye my hair. Apparently, he is having none of the "aging gracefully" attitude I am trying to embrace and the white stripes which have started to bookend my face verily annoy him. Personally, I think they make me look rakish.
"Mom." he begins, all high-school seriousness, "you HAVE to dye it... You are too young to have gray hair."
"But, darling," I always counter, "if I dye it, how will people know that I'm a super-villain?"
"At least stop pulling your hair back, then. It's not so bad when you leave your bangs down."
"What?! And cover the temples of doom? Never!"
I don't know, I strongly suspect that this little plan of mine is going to backfire. Rather than encouraging my kids to resist this hateful world of anti-aging creams and silicone injections, they might just take in their crazy, decrepit old mother and run for the cosmetic interventions as fast as they can, using their college funds to bank roll eye jobs and Botox.
And it's not as if I don't understand the impulse. The other day I caught a look at myself in the mirror and realized that cute is on its way out. (Actually, cute might have vacated the premises quite some time ago.) I understood that I cannot count on any sort of residual attractiveness to engender warm feelings in others. No conversations started simply because I looked like a pleasant person.
"Lady," I admonished, "you had best take up a very interesting hobby."
The pisser is, I couldn't think of any! Right now, I have all the hobbies I want-- eating, napping and watching tv shows from the seventies on Netflix. I'm too damn tired for anything else. This does not bode well. Especially since time is rapidly running out.
I had breakfast with my peeps the other morning. ("Peeps" being the sort of word I love to torture my kids with-- like "totes" and "YOLO." Children are so intolerant of blatant uncool-ness, even if it is intentional. It makes it easy to torment them. You should try it.) One friend was updating us as to the state of a new, neighborhood cafe and it's sadly inattentive and careless young staff. Then she mentioned that she had a dentist appointment and I chimed in with a fascinating tidbit about a freakishly dangerous bug I managed to contract, when suddenly I stopped, looked at the table and asked;
"Wait a minute. Have we just been comparing medical problems and complaining about the sorry attitude of young people today?"
Then we burst out laughing.
Holy smokes, that sneaks up on you easily. In the blink of an eye, "Where's the party?" morphs into, "Where's my reading glasses?" "I'm gonna' hurl!" has become, "I gotta' pee!"-- which, when I think about it, is probably a lateral move. If I'm going to become the sort of interesting, wise and tough old broad I aspire to, I need a plan and fast! Quick! Before that cruise ship has sailed.
So I need a new hobby, is what I'm saying. I need to be an expert at something other than cheap red wines and Gilligan's Island trivia. Less along the lines of the care of feeding of house cats and more like giant metal sculptures I weld in the back yard. Or Bollywood dance, which I am seriously, seriously considering. In a pinch, I could always fall back on super-villainy. I've already got the hair.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Well, that's it, then.
Miss Teen Wonder is set for college. Papers signed, money sent, room-mate chosen. Finito. Barring a spring semester senior year prank bordering on a felony, its all over but the crying.
Actually, that isn't true. I've been crying on and off since last Sunday. Weeping copious and unassailable tears. I can't even explain it, except to say that I am just so proud- of her mostly, but also me. I had a baby and now she is a woman; a beautiful, funny, smart, capable woman. And I helped get her there. She wasn't eaten by wolves, or inadvertently left at the side of the road... I only ever dropped her the once.
Truthfully, I made so many mistakes. So. Many. I don't think in the past 18 years there has been even one night that I've gone to bed and thought, "Nailed it!" Some days the very best parenting I was capable of, when confronted with yet another demand to make a PBJ, hand over a cookie or tie a shoe, was to NOT just turn and walk silently from the house, making my way to Florida, there to live under an assumed name, so help me god!--(because no one would ever think to look for me there, given my well known feelings about humidity and sharks and giant squid, that's why)--but instead to calmly hand the little despot a snack or tie the darn shoe. Sometimes the smallest victories are the most important.
Luckily, kids are like seeds. They don't need much, just don't step on them and they start to grow toward the light. You, however, have no idea what you are growing. You think maybe a nice orderly row of snapdragons, but instead you get this funky, creeping ivy that refuses to stand upright and grow in a nice, straight line. It makes you crazy! You rant and rave about these stupid snapdragons that won't grow like they should and then one day the neighbor compliments you on your beautiful ivy. She's been trying to grow ivy for years, but the only thing that comes up in her garden are pole beans.
This winter was super sad and all around sucky. Never-ending cold and rotten news. Winters like this make me feel like I'm living a Russian tragedy. Cue the wolves.
I'd pretty much settled into a truly spectacular sulk-- everything is dumb, what have I ever accomplished anyways, yada, yada, yada... then this. This realization of looming adulthood. This beautiful young lady that I can claim maybe, generously, one tiny sliver of responsibility for. I know that the timing is crazy, right? We're not even close to the end of the school year. IT'S SUPPOSED TO SNOW TONIGHT, PEOPLE. There is nary a cap and gown in sight, and then we have the whole, entire summer--but what can I say? For whatever reason, my heart feels like it's caught in a vice. Leave me alone for five minutes and I scurry downstairs to stare, incredulous, at baby pictures. I am overwhelmed and proud and heartbroken and grateful, so very grateful.
And, also, I'm crying again.
I may never stop.
Friday, January 3, 2014
|My favorite picture.|
Yesterday morning I felt the first stirrings of enthusiasm, but that was quickly squelched by two weeks of procrastinated errands, paperwork, laundry and a houseful of uncooperative children. But today, people, today I might admit to a returning optimism about the upcoming year. Not enough to make actual resolutions because, blech, hard work, but enough to look forward to the good things the new year has in store. For example:
1) I'm starting a new volunteer gig with an Alzheimer's group home, something I've wanted to do for a very long time.
2) Hubby and I just signed up for Grandma's marathon, which is our first non-Twin Cities marathon and also means a trip to see my sister and brother-in-law. Fun, except for the actual running part.
3) I will probably break down and let Little Man get a hedgehog this fall. Given that our current pet, the neurotically phobic cat, Speckles, hates us, this will most likely be a welcome change.
4) Hubby is busy planning our "very-last-trip-all-together-before-Boo-leaves-for-college" summer vacation. It will be a two-week long road trip to the East Coast involving periodic camping and allowing Hubby to complete his goal of swimming in all five Great Lakes. The kids are hugely opposed. It will be character-building.
I'm sure there is more, but for this morning, it's enough. I've even mustered the energy to make one resolution; to act more often than not on my good intentions. To not let the impulse to meet a friend, send a card or visit with a neighbor fall victim to the tyrannical relentlessness of daily responsibility. To follow up on the little acts that make life sweeter and damn the errands that get in the way. If I can follow that one, single resolution, 2014 will be a mighty fine year, after all.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
So, it's spackle, right? Either that or some sort of biological weapon that causes partial blindness within a twenty foot radius. Either way, I'm a big fan. Thank you, scientists, for dedicating your considerable intelligence toward saving innocent bystanders from my decrepitude.
The timing couldn't be better as I've been working on assimilating a new bit of information. I bent down to lace up my shoe and realized I'm getting serious old lady skin on my legs; a little bit translucent, blue veins, chapped. Just now I took a minute to contemplate my arms and realized if I rotate my wrists in a circle, the skin on my arms looks just like a towel when you are wringing the water out of it. Amazing. I spent five minutes perfecting my new party trick.
The thing is, I don't feel like I should be cowering in shame. Au contraire. I feel just like a baby who has accidentally pulled their foot into their mouth for the first time. Like, "Holy hell! How did that happen?" The baby isn't horrified or judgy. The baby is fascinated. That's how I feel; fascinated, not horrified.
Okay, if I were entirely honest, it's probably more like 80% fascinated, 20% horrified, but mostly it isn't bothering me at all. Because I am above all that, that's why. Or I'm striving to and it would be a whole lot easier if everyone would get on board, instead of fighting so freaking hard to stay 21 years old.
Folks are expending a lot of energy attempting to convince themselves that we have somehow found the secret to perpetual youth when, really, it seems more like an extended adolescence. To my mind running around, saying things like "50 is the new 30!" is pretty much horse feathers. HORSE FEATHERS, you whippersnappers!
First off, my mom has a picture of my Grandparents in their fifties and every time I look at it I can not believe how great they look. I mean, if 50 was the old 50, current logic dictates they should have been hunched over their walkers hissing at the sun not rocking a jet black beehive and mini-skirt, showing off their legs. (Oh, Grandpa...) I will bet you serious dollars that fifty-year-olds have ALWAYS felt younger than whatever fifty-year-olds are supposed to feel like.
Secondly, behaving like an insecure teenager doesn't make you young. It makes you annoying. Teenagers are terrible role models. Their endless fussing and primping, while important to those trying to figure out who, exactly they are with their new independence, does not translate well to adults. It comes off as peevish and vapid. It's like we don't even care what sort of people we've turned out to be as long as our foreheads are immobile and line free.
And none of this makes for what truly keeps our spirits youthful. For that, and this may seem to run a little counter to my argument, you need to set your intentions even younger. Think six or maybe seven years old. Shoot for a sense of wonder and unbounded energy and a raucous and slightly annoying sense of humor. Have a willingness to play in the dirt. Moon your brother and kiss your mom. Never wear matching socks-- life is short, people! Decorate everything with glitter and you will feel years younger, I promise. Besides, that's a much easier physical ideal to live up to. Pudgy belly, flat chest, wild and unfettered hairstyle....? Check, check and CHECK.
Monday, September 16, 2013
1) The cleaning. Okay, the actual, physical work of cleaning is not the worst thing-- even though it's a total drag and takes your whole and entire Saturday and has the kids practically up in arms by time supper rolls around. Nope. Not the worst thing. The worst thing is that after a couple of hours, it occurs to you that no one's house should be such a mess as to require hour upon relentless hour of scrubbing to make it hospitable to people lucky enough to not live here. You start to question your worth as a grown-ass person. Questions start to present themselves; "Is that toothpaste on the wall?" "Why are there chicken bones under the couch?" And "I sure hope those are chicken bones." Since this whole endeavor is for your birthday, you can't help but think maybe by this decade you should have a better grasp on this whole housekeeping/cleanliness thing.
2) The dread of explaining to your guests the, um, idiosyncrasies of your bathroom. "Hold the toilet handle down for not less than 11, but no more than 14 seconds. Also, the snazzy foaming soap dispenser works just fine, you just have to pull the nozzle back up to its original position when you're done. Also, don't push down the drain plug in the sink, or we're going to have to find a nail, a hammer and a pair of pliers to get it back out." No number of fluffy, just-washed towels and fancy candle holders are going to erase the white trashiness of those instructions. Martha Stewart you are not.
3) The fear that some Lookee Lou is going to take their life in their hands and sneak a peek behind the shower curtain. Back in the day, when you and your spouse were all heady with the joy of homeownership, you looked at the cracked tile in the shower and said, "Phffffbt. How hard could that be to replace? We can totally do that." Answers: Very, and no you couldn't. Now you are battling mildew so pervasive that it has probably evolved into a sentient being. (It, too, is wondering why there are chicken bones under the couch.) Your only option at this point is to hire a bona fide professional to subdue the beast, but the hazard pay required has placed this maddeningly beyond reach.
4) You know what? The whole dang bathroom. You've seen the water from the shower drip, drip, dripping into the basement laundry room long enough to know that whole thing is going to cave in one of these days. Better just to send everyone to the Super America down the street. The bathroom is better and they can bring you back a blue raspberry slushie. It's a win/win, really.
5) You have nothing to wear. Seriously, not a thing. Yes, you manage to clothe yourselves daily, but you look terrible in all that stuff. Plus, it's dirty, or the zipper doesn't work, or it's all wine-stainy. Screw it. Put on some bright lipstick and big earrings. Start drinking early.
6) The absolute fear that not a single person is going to show up. You have been out of junior high school for a super long time by this point, but it still feels like the only folks you can con into showing up for your birthday are your cousins and that's only because their mom made them. Now you live in different states and you don't even have that safety net. People are busy. They have kids, lives, jobs. They don't want to come to your party. They want a nap. YOU want a nap. Maybe it's not too late to call your Aunt.
The reason we all do.
That moment when you look around at the many people in your home and they are talking and laughing and there is music and suddenly this party feels like you are on that old show, "This Is Your Life" and it is the very best episode ever. Your kids and their friends are there, children you have known since they were babies, and now are almost grown up people themselves. There are teeny little kids and old friends and new friends and work friends... And yes, it could be the sangria talking, but you are aglow with the wonderment of how stinking fortunate you have been your whole life to be around the people you've known--whether or not they happen to be standing in your living room at this particular moment. It is clearly the best idea you have ever had to host this party and you resolve to throw many, many more. Of course, you'll have to do something about that dang bathroom, but you can worry about that, tomorrow.
Monday, September 2, 2013
The heat has broke, thank god. Let me just say, the worst thing about last week's heat wave wasn't the oppressive temperatures, or the soul-crushing humidity. No, the worst part of last week was the fact that they cancelled school for those buildings without air conditioning.
I get it, I do. It was hot, for the love of Pete. But, my god, I had just gotten the kids back to the blessed structure of school. And they needed it, believe me. I don't know about you, your kids were probably lovely, but my kids had gone completely feral. They'd roll out of bed, snarl at you if you suggested anything constructive, grab a fist full of dry cereal and bolt out the door. A large group of neighborhood kids had formed a sort of clan, bonded by boredom and an aversion to household chores. You'd see them in their wolf pack, moving amoeba-like through the streets, a mass of bikes, skateboards, and scooters. I could tell that they came home occasionally because all of our bread bags seemed to have been torn open with their teeth. Wrestling them back into their home was a challenge. Getting them to take showers was exhausting. Ask them to clean their rooms...? Tears all around. It is not for nothing that bedtime, on the last day of summer vacation, is my favorite holiday of all.
(Right. It's not really a holiday, but it totally should be.)
Now it's Labor Day, I mean, seriously, can I catch a break here? Right now, Little Man is swinging an extension cord around his head like a lasso. Totally my fault. I mean, I never technically said, "Do not try to lasso and hog-tie your sisters with an electrical cord" so how would he know? That is the problem with summer vacation; they are thinking up things to do faster than I can forbid them.
My brain is just too old, too inflexible, too shaped by years of following the rules of polite society. I don't try to teach myself to juggle with items from the refrigerator. I don't write my "To Do" list in sharpie on the wall next to my bed. I don't try to kidnap baby rabbits and bring them into my house. I do not attempt to "gently body-slam" my siblings, or tape random kitchen utensils together until every single wooden spoon is encased in a basketball sized mass and, by the way, we are out of masking tape. These are not the sort of behaviors I can predict, and therefore get in front of.
One more day. Tomorrow, if there is a god, the kids will be back in school. Of course, I'm working today, so it's really up to Hubby to get them through this final day of summer.
Good luck dear, and God bless. I'll see you later tonight.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
|Might I interest you in some pantaloons?|
Problem: I might not be very good at this job.
It wasn't until after I started that it occurred to me I've never worked retail before. That seems weird, right? I've been working since I was fifteen years old and never once in any sort of retail capacity. It is not necessarily coming naturally to me.
My boss offered a gentle suggestion that I allow customers to peruse the store for a bit before greeting them, as opposed to what I was doing, which was accosting them the second they entered our proximity, practically snatching the door out of their hands in my haste to offer a verbal hello. This is, apparently, not so much welcoming as extremely alarming. Right. Greet them. Don't scare them.
Here's the thing; due to the nature of our products, there is a lot of information I need to know. A LOT. The advantages of natural latex over memory foam. The dangers of off-gassing. Common carcinogens in cosmetics. It makes me excedingly nervous to feel so uninformed. What I do know is that I am supposed to greet customers as they enter, so therefore, I've been greeting the CRAP out of them.
I suppose next she will want me to work my secondary course of action which is, after aggressively greeting the customer, ("HELLO! DO YOU NEED ANY HELP? NO?!! I'LL BE OVER HERE!") to retreat behind the counter and stare at them as intently as a lion tracking a wounded water buffalo calf. Even I can see that it would be better to cultivate a more relaxed and approachable attitude. One that that suggests, "I'm here to help" and not, "I'm memorizing your features so I can find you later and cut you into teeny bits" --but it's hard, y'all.
Still, none of that is why I think I've got a long, uphill battle to "Shopgirl of the Year." Last week after my very first shift I, in all earnestness, turned to Hubby and exclaimed, "Whew! Thank goodness I have tomorrow off!"
Ugh. Worst shopgirl ever.